On this perch Manhattan at three
a.m. is dark and empty except
for a few cabs, a drunk below, and me
observing: It revolves around me
floating among canyons of three
infinite planes: road, wall, and roofline - except
I have grown down into its dark skin - except
this impenitent city has dug into me
on the edge of this tin roof with its three
water towers standing like three sentinels - except
unconcerned with me, or the sudden flight of pigeons.
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Comments: 31
Thank you submitting to Gathers Luminous Writers and Artists. Now Featured.
water towers standing like sentinels
unconcerned with me, or the sudden flight of pigeons.
Having been in just that sort of scene, I especially love this poem, Atticus.
I like your solution to the last line Stirling - It works for "me" - "except"
it is a tritina and I am bound to use all "three" of the end words. :-)
Thank you Stirling, I appreciate the feedback!
Except is a very difficult word to use in this form, I think. So much so that I wonder if the form drives the poem, which is not what form is meant to do. --whetstone
It's a wonderful study in contrast, the way you and Mustafa have the day and night, the past and current NYC, covered so well. Always exceptional work, Atticus*.
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This is, as Michelle says, a very Atticus poem. Signature poem. You have a definite voice, my Texan friend, and you use it carefully.
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From a whetstone perch I would agree that the 'except' is harsh and abrupt and doesn't speak to me of pigeons. Something vaguely onomatopoeic, such as the softer 'although' might be accommodated with some adjustment. Nevertheless, a masterfully moody and evocative poem.
then ponder what will yet happen. Oh, my.
Kudos to you, Atticus.